Love Interest
by aknavemanner
Summary: Blaine Anderson didn't know what he was getting himself into when he found an interest in the aloof Kurt Hummel, McKinley's resident recluse. AU


Because it seems like Raven and I always seem to bite off a bit more than we can chew with our fanfiction, we've decided to go back to what we'd first started writing: one-shots. Thanks for reading and reviewing everyone! :D

Disclaimer: We don't own any part of Glee (no matter how much we'd like to), and we don't make any money off of it so DON'T SUE US.

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><p>If he messed with his bow tie one more time, he was going to give himself a complex. But it was his first day back to a <em>public<em> school.

Blaine looked into his side view mirror critically, and sighed. As always, this was as good as it was gonna get. He pushed back a stubborn cowlick and pulled his door open, stepping out of his car and into the brisk wind.

The woman at the front desk of the main office didn't even look up when he came in. He looked around the room interestedly before coming to her desk, smiling widely.

"Hi, I'm Blaine Anders-"

"Your schedule's in the pink folder," she interrupted swiftly, not glancing at him. He looked up and down the counter to see a slim pink folder lying in a pile of papers. He opened it gingerly and took out his time card. "Your locker's 245, combination's on your card." He turned to the woman to thank her but thought better of it when she swore filthily at her ancient computer.

He rushed from the office, looking around helplessly for his first class (Spanish with Martinez). It took him an extra five minutes before he was able to finally locate room 314, and class had already started. Half of the students looked up to see who'd come into the room, and Blaine flushed red.

"How can I help you?" the teacher up front asked, eyebrows raised. Blaine handed his time card to the man immediately.

"I'm new. I'm Blaine Anderson."

"Oh, bienvenida," the teacher said offhandedly, smiling at him. "Clase, esto es Blaine. Siéntate allí, ¿de acuerdo?"

Blaine stared at the teacher blankly, and the man's smile fell minutely. He gestured to a seat next to a boy (who was currently sleeping) in a ratty hoodie. Nodding in understanding, Blaine hurried to the desk and sat down.

"What?" the boy beside him said suddenly, looking around blearily. Blaine hesitated slightly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered.

"Whatever, man."

"Shut up, Brett," a pretty Latino girl behind him said severely. Blaine turned to thank her, but she gave him a piercing glare. "What are you looking at?"

Blaine swiveled in his seat and sunk into it. So much for a good first day at a public school.

The rest of Spanish inched by slowly, Blaine sinking lower and lower in his seat in hopes that if he sank down low enough, the teacher wouldn't be able to see him and therefore wouldn't ask him to answer any questions. He found most of the Spanish elementary since the curriculum was at least three chapters ahead back at his private school, but he was quickly figuring out that McKinley High was not a place where he should be striving to stand out in any way.

He slipped out of the classroom quickly and unnoticed when the bell rang, and he maneuvered his way through the halls in search of his locker. Finally, by squeezing past a couple furiously shoving their tongues down each other's throats (it honestly looked like the T-rex of a boy was physically eating the tiny girl's face, Blaine thought in disgust), he finally found locker number 245.

It took three times to get the locker open, since the lock kept jamming and the door kept sticking. As he piled some of his textbooks away and began to post pictures of his old friends from Dalton on the inside of the door, he looked around, taking in his surroundings. Students joked around and laughed in groups of twos and fives, cheerleaders flounced down the hall in their short skirts and jocks followed them eagerly. Students parted in a distant hallway, making way for a menacing-looking woman in a tracksuit to stalk down the corridor.

His eyes settled on a bulletin board on the wall beside the group of lockers that his belonged to. Pinned to it were various flyers and announcements; pre-sale tickets to a school dance, tutoring offers, sign ups for the school newspaper, Drama Club, Yearbook, Glee Club -

Blaine nearly dropped a textbook on his foot.

He hurried to pack his things away in his satchel and slam his locker shut before side-stepping over to the sign-up sheet. The sheet looked brand new and blank, and the sleek ballpoint pen chained to the board looked incredibly inviting.

Blaine bit his lower lip, looked around, and picked up the pen.

He'd hardly finished the leg of the 'n' in _Anderson_ and turned around when the slushie smacked him in the face with all the warning of car crash. And it's exactly how it felt, too - a _frigid_ car crash, straight into his face, and down his shirt.

"Welcome to McKinley, _gleek_," came a harsh voice heading the other direction. Blaine looked over his shoulder to only see a retreating letterman jacket, slapping hands with another jock.

Then the burning started, and he bit his lip to keep from swearing aloud. He blindly groped along the wall for the door to the boys' bathroom and rushed inside.

He bent over the sink, scrubbing frantically at his eyes, hissing beneath his breath. Swirls of bright red went down the drain. He bent low, putting his head beneath the faucet to let the water flow over him. Sighing in relief, he let himself relax until he heard the stall door open with a clack.

Blaine stood, blinking water out of his eyes to see who else was in the restroom.

He smelled the smoke before he actually saw the boy emerge from the stall.

He was pale, and was all limbs. He wore a burnt charcoal watch cap, and low slung, forest green skinny jeans. A cigarette was held loosely in his lithe fingers, and he raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He pulled off the enormous headphones and placed them around his neck.

"One slushie or two?" the boy asked, his voice monotonic. Blaine found himself nodding, and the boy made an irritated sound in the back of his throat. He leaned against the wall of the stall. "Uh, one slushie or _two_?"

Blaine stumbled over his words as he said them. "J-just one."

"Two of them means you could probably go home. That means spare pants," said the boy. He took a long drag off his cigarette, held it, and exhaled long tendrils of milky smoke.

"You've been hit with a slushie before?" Blaine asked timidly, and the boy snorted, pushing himself from the wall.

"They wouldn't hit me," the boy responded, wrinkling his forehead. "That'd mean I'd let myself anywhere _near_ them. Fucking plebeian _neanderthals_." Blaine chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"Then how'd you know two slushies let you go home?" he asked quietly, and the boy grinned.

"I've got my own neanderthal of a brother whose dwarf girlfriend gets slushied _regularly_," the boy said. He made a move to leave, but Blaine stepped to the side. The boy's eyes widened. "What are you -"

"I'm new here, I'm Blaine," Blaine blurted, holding out a hand, dripping with sink water. The boy chuckled quietly and shook his head.

"Good for you. Keep out of the way from the sheltered, indoctrinated masses and maybe you won't get hit with any more flavored ice." He tapped ash from his cigarette onto the wet tile of the bathroom floor and gave Blaine a sardonic smile. "Would you move?"

Blaine shifted uncomfortably. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

The boy rolled his eyes, walking straight past Blaine.

Blaine stood, overawed, for only a moment before peeking back out into the ebbing rush of students.

The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Blaine frowned, but had little time to ponder the stranger before the bell signaling the start of second period rang. Blaine shook himself out of his daze, maybe shaking a few water droplets out of his hair in the process, and ran in one direction, pulling out his timecard on the way, hoping he was going in the direction of room 123.

Apparently he wasn't going in the direction of room 123, and ended up in Chemistry fifteen minutes late. The teacher simply cast him a wary glare, so Blaine thought better of introducing himself and made to sit in one of the last empty seats near the snickering jocks in the back.

"Did you enjoy your home-warming present, gleek?" whispered one of them. Blaine sighed wearily as he recognized the voice of the jock who had thrown the slushy, focusing his eyes hard at the front of the classroom and taking out a pencil and notebook.

Luckily, the jocks seemed more preoccupied within themselves than they were with Blaine, and he was able to slide away unnoticed when the bell for lunch sounded.

When Blaine came into the choir room at 3:30, what he found was most _definitely_ not what he expected. He knew that the Warblers were hardly standard glee club material, but they'd never had actual shouting matches.

They all looked up after he'd been standing there for a good minute and a half. He shifted his weight to the other foot and waved awkwardly.

"This is the glee club, right?"

Many of the glee club members stared at him incredulously, but a minuscule girl in knee high socks grinned widely and dashed forward.

"Are you here to audition?" she asked excitedly, smiling with every tooth visible. He was taken aback momentarily.

"Uh, yeah…"

"Welcome to the glee club!" she said grandly, sweeping her hand out. "You're new, aren't you?"

"It's my first day today."

"Wait a second!" exclaimed a scowling boy with a mohawk. "I know you!"

"You do?" Blaine asked uneasily. The boy nodded emphatically. "From where?"

"You're one of the Garglers, right? Dalton Academy. You were at our Sectionals!"

The tiny girl whirled on him, smile gone and eyes comically wide. "Are you a _spy_?"

"No!" Blaine exclaimed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I really transferred here today. And it's the _Warblers._" The girl scrutinized his face and clapped her hands.

"Puck is right. You were the soloist, weren't you?" she said, placing two fists on her hips. "Why'd you come to McKinley?"

"My dad had a job transfer, McKinley was closest," Blaine mumbled, becoming increasingly intimidated by the intensity of the girl's glare.

"Well, welcome," said the curly-haired man behind all of them. He hopped off his stool and strode over to him. "I'm the choir director, Mr. Schuester. We welcome everyone into the New Directions -" (Blaine couldn't get over that _name_) "-but you gotta sing for us first, even though we heard you at Sectionals."

"That's fine," Blaine said, grateful that he didn't have to maintain eye contact with the diminutive girl beside him who was _still _staring at him. "Can I pick my song to sing?"

"Sure, sure," Mr. Schuester said, ushering Blaine forward. "Sing whatever you'd like."

Blaine spotted the band lounging casually in a corner of the room and walked over with a hopeful bounce in his step; if he made it into glee club, maybe he could save his disastrous first day yet.

He muttered his song choice to the lead guitarist, who smiled and nodded in approval. Blaine gave him a thumbs up and moved back to the center of the room as the music began, smiling as his mouth opened to let the lyrics come pouring through.

He was in the zone for the entire performance, giving it his all until the very last notes of Smile by Uncle Kracker. He cracked his eyes open, hesitant to see the New Directions' expressions, but was delighted to find the girls wide-eyed and smiling, and the men leaning back in their seats, reluctantly impressed looks passing over their faces.

The club broke out into applause, and he felt Mr. Schuester's hand clapping him on the shoulder.

"Great performance Blaine! What do you think guys, is he worthy to be in our-"

"Yes," the girls chorused enthusiastically, followed by some mumbled affirmations from the guys as well.

"The jury has spoken," Mr. Schuester chuckled, "I guess you can take a seat, Blaine."

Blaine beamed as he slid into a seat by a kid in a wheelchair.

"That song was bomb, yo," said the bespectacled boy, and Blaine accepted the offered fist bump with a hesitant grin.

His moment of glory didn't last long however, because the rest of the class period seemed to be devoted to brainstorming a setlist for Regionals. Well, that was how Mr. Schuester introduced it; what it actually turned out to be was the small girl in knee-socks (Rachel, Blaine noted) proposing a multitude of solos she wanted the rest of the club to back her up on. After an hour of it, he couldn't help but think that nothing of real importance had been accomplished in those, and was just beginning to consider if he even stood a chance for a solo at Regionals when he was elbowed lightly from the side.

"Hey," said the tall Asian kid - Mike, Blaine remembered.

"Is she always like that?" Blaine asked quietly as Rachel flipped her hair behind her, beginning to argue animatedly with the severe-looking girl from his Spanish class.

"You get used to it," muttered Mike, grinning. "It never really affects me. As long as I get to dance."

"Are you good at it?"

"He's great at it," said the Asian girl behind him. She smiled when he turned to look at her. "I'm Tina."

"That's rough having your dad move between semesters," Mike said lowly, keeping a smile on his face as Rachel's eyes slid to them momentarily to make sure they were paying attention. "I'd be too stressed out to get decent grades, y'know?"

"I'm doing alright. My classes aren't that hard from what I've had."

"Let me see your schedule."

Blaine pulled it from the pocket of his cuffed blue jeans and handed it over, Mike unfolded it deftly and scanned down the list. "You're a sophomore?"

"Yeah."

"And you're in Calc AB?" Mike asked, voice astounded. "Dude, _why_?"

"What class are you in?"

"The same one, but I'm a _junior_, it's different."

Blaine shrugged. "I'm pretty good at it, and it looks good on college apps to be in a good math class." Tina groaned behind him.

"Ugh, apps. We have, like, nine months before we do those. And you don't even have to worry for another year!"

"My parents want me to be prepared," Blaine said, feeling a bit self-conscious. Mike noticed and shook his head.

"Nah, dude, it's cool. You know what? You should join the Brainiacs." Mike laughed quietly at Blaine's bewildered expression. "Academic decathlon, dude. We're pretty good at what we do. And Nationals is in Detroit this year."

"I'll - I'll think about it, for sure," Blaine said sincerely. Mike nodded and looked back at his schedule.

"We have calc together, and… oh, cool, you're in PE with Tina fourth tomorrow."

"I walk laps," Tina said, leaning to look at Blaine's schedule. "PE's kinda no-pressure here."

"Are any classes high-pressure here?" Blaine asked, and Tina giggled.

"Not for the Brainiacs, they aren't," said Artie from beside him, nudging him with his elbow.

When glee rehearsal was over, Mike caught him on the way out.

"Where you headed, man?" Mike asked him. Blaine glanced towards to see that Mike and Tina's hands were intertwined. Huh.

"Home, probably," Blaine said, and Mike cracked a grin.

"Tina and I are headed with Artie to go pick up Brainiac t-shirts. You wanna come?"

"I think I'll have to pass today, I have a lot of make-up work to do," Blaine said apologetically. Out of the corner of his eye he saw thin legs making long strides beside a bicycle. The boy jumped on his bike and headed out of the parking lot, making a car honk at him. "Who was that?"

"Who was who?" Tina asked, looking over her shoulder to see who Blaine was talking about.

"I saw him earlier. You know, brown hair, blue eyes… big headphones?" Blaine asked, gesturing at his neck. Mike exchanged a quick glance with Tina, who rolled her eyes.

"And insufferable attitude and a pretentious wardrobe?" Blaine nodded hesitantly, and Tina shrugged a shoulder. "Kurt Hummel. Everyone knows him but nobody knows him, you know?"

He didn't but he nodded anyways.

"We'll catch you tomorrow, Blaine," Mike said, waving good-naturedly.

His mother was waiting at home with dinner when Blaine got home, and they sat down to an early dinner of pot roast. Mr. Anderson was having yet another late night, so all eyes were on Blaine as he gave perfunctory answers to his mom's questions about his first day of school. He conveniently left out the part about getting hit in the face with red slush, but detailed his successful audition for Glee club. Throughout the story his mother nodded indulgently and he was grateful even for her tolerance; she, unlike his father, at least encouraged him to pursue his "hobbies." (He had long since given up trying emphasize his desire to perform for a living because there was no way either of his parents would find it to be an "acceptable source of income.")

After dinner Blaine retreated to his room to begin his make up work, and found himself performing the busywork until he fell asleep on his Spanish textbook.

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><p>The rest of the week passed uneventfully, and un-Kurt-Hummel-fully. Blaine quickly learned to run the other way when jocks came hulking down the hall with hands behind their backs and wolfish grins on their faces, and to keep a spare set of clothes in his locker when he was caught off guard. He found himself living for afternoons in glee club, the only place he didn't have to shrink down in his seat or seal his mouth shut to stay undercover.<p>

He found a best friend in Mike, and began to look forward to Calculus as well, where they would pass notes in the back of class and throw paper airplanes at each other when the teacher wasn't looking. In Glee club Mike would introduce dance moves to Blaine to expand on his limited side-step repertoire, and Blaine would attempt (and mostly fail) to teach Mike simple scales to improve his singing.

McKinley wasn't that bad after all, Blaine thought as he tuned out Rachel's obnoxious chattering on Friday afternoon, but it could be better.

Blaine came home to an empty house; his mother had accompanied his father to a company event. Having finished the last of his make-up work in the middle of the week, Blaine took some microwaved leftover spaghetti to his room to relax and listen to music.

He scrolled through his iPod as he chewed, frowning at the realization that he didn't have any new songs to enjoy. He tossed the thing on his bed, opting to eat in silence.

Blaine set the empty bowl on the bedside table and was immediately restless, foot tapping impatiently on the floor and fingers drumming aimlessly on his lap. Usually on Fridays he would go out with his Dalton friends to dinner or bowling or rollerskating, but now that he was miles away he had nothing to do.

Stuck alone at home on a Friday night.

Blaine sighed and grabbed a coat and scarf, deciding on exploring his new town a little more. He hadn't had a chance to find a regular coffee place this week like he wanted to.

He fastened the buttons on his coat and fired up the restaurant app on his phone, scrolling through the different options until he found a hip, hole-in-the-wall type of place on the outskirts of Lima, ten minutes away from his house and fifteen minutes away from school.

Twenty minutes later (he had inevitably gotten lost) found Blaine locking his car in the small parking lot of The Grind. He frowned at the mostly-dark windows, wondering if the place was closed already, but when he pulled on the double doors they swung open easily, and he walked in.

The reason for the lack of lighting became immediately clear; he had walked in on some sort of gathering.

The small counter was directly to his left, and as he closed the door behind him he faced groupings of small tables and chairs, all the owners of which were directing their attention to a small stage in the back of the room. Some tables nearer the front of the shop, away from the stage, were chattering amongst themselves, but the few tables encompassing the stage were paying rapt attention to the performer, who was reciting a stilted, nonrhythmic jumble of words as a cello hummed mournfully in the corner.

Blaine blushed irrationally; he had walked in on a poetry slam.

He quickly got his coffee from the bored-looking, gum-popping barista ("Medium drip with a bit of cinnamon, please") and slid into an empty table far from the stage to sip silently from the mug (she'd given him a dirty look when he'd ask for it to go).

He made a note to definitely come back later when he could relax and maybe talk freely with friends, because the coffee was delicious.

He fought down a bout of discomfort when the performer finished his poem and snaps echoed throughout the shop. He made a point to appreciate all forms of art, but couldn't help but feel out of place amongst all these hipsters.

Blaine scanned the crowd inconspicuously, taking in the sometimes dizzying clothing choices, the steaming cups of coffee and tea, the disinterested looking faces, the long, slender limbs -

Blaine nearly choked on his coffee, blushing furiously as the couple at the table next to him turned to stare.

Kurt Hummel was at the table directly in front and to the right of his own.

His pale profile glowed in the dim spotlight of the stage as he snapped half-heartedly with one hand, drumming long fingers of the other against his cup. His neck seemed to go on forever in the black turtle neck, legs going on even farther than forever in skinny black cords.

Blaine couldn't precisely describe why his heart beat hard against his chest, or why his eyes refused to unglue from the way that hair curled and smoothed perfectly into its style.

He must have sensed that someone was watching him, because Kurt Hummel turned his head and Blaine suddenly found himself staring directly into his blue-green gaze.

Before he could get his heart to beat again, or get his head to turn away, Kurt rolled his eyes and returned his attention back to the stage.

Bending over to keep himself inconspicuous from the other coffeehouse-goers, Blaine snuck forward to take the seat opposite Kurt. They sat, neither one speaking, as the poet shook with emotion, the curtain of brown hair around her vibrating. As she fell into silence, the room shifted into a wave of snapping. Kurt's head whipped around to see Blaine across from him. He didn't glare.

Kurt's eyes were widened, eyebrows raised in question. Blaine inhaled heavily but Kurt shook his head, rising from the seat. He gestured with his head to the other people in the room, the coffee shop oppressively silent once more. Blaine nodded in understanding and followed Kurt wordlessly out the front door of the coffeehouse.

As soon as they exited, Kurt pivoted on his heel lazily and looked at Blaine, unimpressed. "Were you here for the slam or did you follow me?" he asked quietly. Blaine swallowed heavily.

"How long were you in there?"

"Came right after school to chat up some of the speakers. Do you actually listen to people when they ask questions? Because this is the second time you've done this."

"Neither," Blaine responded, wringing his hands. "I came to find some good coffee."

Kurt snorted and raked a hand through his bangs that weren't covered by the tan oversized beanie on his head. "You really struck me as a Starbucks type, too."

"Starbucks is shit," Blaine replied instantly, almost on instinct, and he knew he'd said the right thing as a slow smile wound up Kurt's face.

"I'd agree with you there, Blaine Anderson." He turned back around and Blaine felt an itching at his spine that he couldn't explain.

"Where are you going?" he blurted, and Kurt paused to look back at him.

"Why do you care?"

"It's Friday," Blaine said, clasping his hands together and staring at Kurt's expressionless face. "Do you want to do something?"

Kurt rolled his eyes (was this going to become a thing?). "I very _sincerely_ doubt anything that I'd like to do would interest you."

"You interest me." Kurt's eyebrows shot to his hairline at that and Blaine colored immediately. The pale boy's eyes narrowed and he shook his head.

"Can't quite say the same. See you in school."

Blaine was left frigid in the parking lot as he watched Kurt unlock his bike and ride off, his legs extended on the pedals, his back arched.

Blaine blinked in shock for a moment, long after Kurt's figure disappeared around the corner, before tossing away his half-finished coffee and climbing back in his car.

He shook himself, furrowing his brow. He felt like he should be insulted at Kurt's snide parting comment, but somehow he could only feel an intense surge of intrigue and curiosity.

Just who was Kurt Hummel?

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><p>Blaine returned to the coffee shop the next day, and the day after, in hopes he would see Kurt again but his attempts were in vain. He tried once more the morning before school on Monday but even though he spotted a familiar bike parked in front of the shop, its owner was nowhere to be seen. Blaine sighed lightly, pretending not to be disappointed as he drove to school with hot coffee in hand.<p>

Kurt Hummel poisoned Blaine's thoughts all day until fifth period PE.

"Bla- Blaine. Blaine!" Tina practically shouted in his ear.

"Huhwha," Blaine snapped his head towards his walking partner, wrenching his thoughts from Kurt's legs in those black cords.

"I was asking what you thought about Mr. Schuester's idea of putting on a concert," she said a little ruefully.

"Oh yeah, it's cool," Blaine said, already trailing off into a daydream of Kurt's slender fingers drumming against a coffee cup.

He shook his head, frustrated with his inability to focus, and began to run, desperate to drown out Kurt Hummel from his brain.

"Where are you going?" Tina called in exasperation.

"I need to move," Blaine called back truthfully.

He could almost hear Tina's overdramatic sigh. He didn't feel too bad; he would lap her and they would join back up soon enough.

He kept his gaze down, watching his feet hit the moving floor and refusing to let his brain think of anything else. Just when the memory of piercing, light eyes had trickled away, he looked up to find the very pair staring lazily at him from beside the bleachers.

Kurt was sitting with his pale legs drawn upwards, cigarette in one hand, Polaroid camera in the other.

"Kurt," Blaine breathed, and Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

Blaine shook himself slightly and tightened his jaw, but didn't take his eyes off Kurt. "Nothing. Are you in this class?"

"Yeah," Kurt replied, smashing the butt of the cigarette against the metal of the bleachers. The cigarette hissed for a moment and Kurt flicked it away. "Is Mr. Range coming?"

"No," Blaine said stupidly, and Kurt looked at Blaine, unimpressed _again_, before placing both hands on his camera and turning it from side to side. "What are you doing over here?"

"I'm not going to run, that's _weak_," Kurt responded, as though it were obvious. He didn't look up at Blaine as he spoke. "What are _you_ doing over here?"

"Running," Blaine said, gesturing to his P.E. garb. Kurt shook his head, laughing beneath his breath. "We're supposed to be."

"Mr. Range doesn't give a shit what you do in his class, just like every other teacher in this school," Kurt said dismissively, letting one (pale and thin and _god _he was _wearing shorts_) leg straighten out before him. "It's a fucked system. So you don't actually have to be running. Your friend gets it."

Blaine looks over his shoulder at Tina, who had sat down on a bench, brushing sweaty locks of hair from her face. He felt a tug of pity, knowing he should go over and sit with her.

"God, I can see your bleeding heart from here," deadpanned Kurt. Blaine swiveled back to Kurt, whose eyes were locked on his. "Go."

"Why are you even in class if you're not going to run?" Blaine asked, and Kurt cracked a grin but didn't respond. Blaine sighed and Kurt's eyes got minutely wider.

"Go to your friend. I'm not stopping you. Form your little temporary friendships while you still can. There's only two years left."

"I'm a sophomore," Blaine corrected quietly, but Kurt didn't seem to notice.

Blaine turned away from him, starting a light jog back over to his friend when he heard a bizarre clicking noise. He looked back at Kurt, but he was hunched over, covering something that Blaine couldn't see from the angle, his hand lightly fanning. He narrowed his eyes and turned back to Tina, who was looking at him questioningly.

"You're friends with Kurt Hummel?" Tina asked, her voice tentative. Blaine considered not responding for a moment, but he remembered that he wasn't Kurt.

"No, I'm not."

It turned out that Mr. Schuester's half-formed idea of a "Night of Neglect" concert evolved into a full-fledged fundraiser. Glee club that day was spent brainstorming publicity ideas and a discussion of obscure bands that left all the students buzzing with excitement by the time 5:30 rolled around.

"I am so screwed," Blaine chuckled as he walked out of the choir room with Mike and Tina.

"Just how often do you venture out of the Top 40?" Tina giggled in reply.

"If it's a Katy Perry song no one likes, does that count as neglected?" Blaine wondered.

"I think the point is neglected artists," Mike laughed.

"Yeah, I'm screwed," Blaine reiterated.

"What are you doing right now?" Mike asked. "I'm just as lost as you are. But Tina probably knows some places we could find obscure records, right babe?" Mike tightened his arm around his girlfriend.

"Yeah. Let's go on an adventure, Blaine!" she urged.

Blaine grinned. "Alright, let's do it," he said, shooting off a quick text to his mother that he would be late for dinner.

"Where to first?" Mike asked as they exited the school building.

"We should split up," Tina suggested. "I'll take you to the thrift store in town. And maybe Blaine could follow us in his car and explore the record store across the street?"

"Sounds like a plan," Blaine beamed.

* * *

><p>Rhapsody, the record store downtown, turned out to be a moderately small square of a place crammed with boxes and boxes of records, cassette-tapes, and CDs. Blaine looked around aimlessly for a few minutes, not even sure where to begin.<p>

He decided that starting at the front and making his way back would be a good way to go about it, so he meandered over to a random set of boxes and started rifling through the records.

Some contained sleeves of Oldies artists like the ones his mom listened to, but that was the extent of Blaine's familiarity with the records in the store. Working his way from the back to the front proved useless; he still had no idea what he would be good at singing for the concert.

He made his way to a bookshelf by the counter in the back of the store crammed with the last of the records he hadn't checked. His heart leaped momentarily because finally he had found music he was familiar with - but his smile faded when he remembered that The Beatles weren't exactly a neglected band. He turned to the section of CDs beside it, scanning past the names on each jewel case and _still_ not recognizing a single name.

"Are you lost?"

Blaine turned swiftly to the counter to find none other than Kurt Hummel perched on the counter.

"I- how- well-" he stuttered, but Kurt interrupted him.

"It's just that you don't really seem the jangle pop type." He gestured to the title of the category above all the discs.

"What makes you think that?" Blaine asked, a little indignantly, though he knew he'd been caught. "I'm a huge fan of… Guadalcanal Diary."

"No, you're not." Blaine started to protest, but Kurt didn't seem to notice. "Run along home back to your iTunes account. You won't find anything you like in here."

"I'm trying to do the opposite, actually."

This seemed to pique Kurt's interest, if a twitch of the eyebrow indicated some level of intrigue.

Blaine realized that Kurt was waiting for him to elaborate, so he cleared his throat nervously. "Our glee club is having a Night of Neglect concert -"

"And you think people will _go_?" Kurt interjected.

"- where we have to sing songs by unknown artists. So that's why I'm here. And you're right, I'm not very… educated on anything other than popular music. So that's why I look ridiculously out of my element."

Kurt's eyebrows kissed his hairline, and Blaine could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched into something of a smile.

"Well, I think you need to identify what genre you want to pursue, because just saying obscure music means 98% of all music ever produced." Kurt hopped off the counter and fingered through the CDs for a brief second beside Blaine. "Isn't that what making it big is all about? It's the 2%. But that doesn't mean there's no talent in the 98%. Sometimes it's just a matter of society not being ready for the sound." Blaine nodded dumbly as Kurt looked back up at him. "So what are you looking for? What music do you normally perform?"

Blaine shook his head fervently, and Kurt raised an eyebrow again. "No, I can feel the waves of judgement already wafting off you."

"You have an iPod on you, don't you?" Kurt said, not really asking a question. Blaine nodded and fished the silver iPod Nano from his pocket. Kurt snatched it from his hand and unlocked it, scanning through Blaine's playlists, hissing every so often.

"You have a lot of bubblegum pop on here," he murmured. "Damn, is this P!nk's full collection? Blaine, there's other music beside what's on the Billboard Top 200… well, here we go, some early Police stuff. You have a lot of Roxy Music too. OK." Kurt tossed it back at Blaine, who fumbled with the small player for a moment. "I can work with this. Glam rock. I could see you doing indie pop, maybe some art rock? Here, let's start with the Olivia Tremor Control. Oh, and some Los Camps!, definitely, here…"

Blaine followed Kurt as he scanned each aisle, flipping records back and pulling out one every so often. Blaine had no less than fifteen CDs and twenty vinyl records in his arms by the end of it. Kurt looked back at him and groaned.

"No, this isn't going to work. What you _need_ is one of my mix CDs. I make them by genre and by year, but they're all at home. When's your concert?"

"Friday."

"It's _Wednesday._ Fuck, fine. Alright, I get off at eight-thirty, you can meet me at my house. Hand me your phone."

Blaine gave it to him, and Kurt opened a note and typed in his address deftly.

"Tina's looking for some music too," Blaine said offhandedly, and Kurt groaned.

"God, really? Well, point her towards some riot grrrl, she seems like a Bikini Kill, Le Tigre sort of girl." Kurt handed the phone back to Blaine and narrowed his eyes at him. "I have to go back to the counter."

"Right," Blaine said, pocketing his cell phone. "I'll see you at eight-thirty."

"Make it 8:45, it'll take me a while to get home."

Blaine nodded and Kurt turned around and headed back behind the register. Blaine went back to his car, finally realizing he'd agreed to _go to Kurt's house_.

* * *

><p>"So I'm probably going to sing some Lykke Li, she's like Björk met Florence and the Machine and had a promisingly talented baby," Tina said when they met up in front of the thrift store she and Mike had been exploring. "I was already kind of set on her. All the records at the thrift shop were, like, just re-releases of the Beach Boys and Prince."<p>

"I'm not even singing," Mike said quietly, shrugging. "I'm dancing to some Jack Johnson."

"Is that obscure?" Blaine asked and Mike shook his head helplessly.

"Isn't Mercedes doing like Aretha Franklin? I don't know, man, I don't think it matters. What are you doing?"

"I…" For a split second, Blaine considered telling them where he was headed in half an hour, that he was going to Kurt's house for collection of Kurt Hummel Mix CDs. But he barely had the nerve to go over in the first place, and they already thought he was a pretentious asshole (which he probably was). "I haven't decided yet. Guess I'll open Pandora until I don't know who I'm listening to."

"That works," Tina said, nodding. "Let us know, though. But it's getting late, see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, see you."

Mike and Tina waved as they got into Tina's Jeep, and Blaine smiled at them weakly before getting into his station wagon.

* * *

><p>Blaine didn't know what he was expecting from Kurt's house, but it was surprisingly plain and suburban. He double checked his phone: 415 Whitman Avenue. There were three bronze numbers on the front of the white siding telling them that he was at the right place, so he exited the car and walked up the three steps and to the front door. He rang the doorbell and stepped back, rocking on his heels as he waited.<p>

A full minute passed, and he screwed up his face, wondering if he'd come too early. He rang the doorbell again right as the door swung open.

"Impatient?" Kurt asked with an eyebrow raised, and Blaine felt his cheeks heat up as they _always_ did around Kurt Hummel. "My collection's upstairs."

Kurt turned away and was walking towards the staircase, leaving Blaine with a bit of whiplash. He shook himself and followed closely behind him, going up the stairs. "They're in the spare room, one second, alright? I have to get the right box…"

"You have _boxes_ of CDs?" Blaine asked incredulously.

"How do you suggest I organize them?" Kurt responded swiftly. Blaine noticed the enormous headphones around his neck were still playing music, loud enough for him to hear from a full two meters away. "I'll go get them, wait here."

Kurt walked down the hallway into the 'spare room.' Blaine was left in the middle of the hall, looking around, trying to memorize the format. There was a room to his immediate left with a huge stop sign and a page of printer paper saying "_FINN'S ROOM. DO NOT ENTER!"_

Wait, _Finn_ was Kurt's neanderthal of a brother?

Why wasn't Kurt in glee club? He obviously liked music. But… perhaps not the music that glee tended to perform. Or the kids in glee club. Or anything about _show choir_.

Then there was a door that had a small, neat label in all capitals declaring it to be "KURT'S ROOM." Feeling his curiosity begin to overpower him, he walked towards it and turned the doorknob, entering the threshold.

The room was a crisp white, with stacks of CDs on the dresser. The bed was unmade. A mobile of pictures on clips turned slightly with the air from the door opening.

An enormous collage of photographs covered the wall. Most of it was obscure blurs of landscapes. Sometimes there was a macro image of a cigarette, or a room of bodies dancing at a concert.

A small collection of rows of Polaroid pictures caught his eye. These were different. They were close-ups of lockers, of the underneath of bleachers.

He narrowed his eyes as he scanned them, but they widened when he noticed the subject of the last few.

It could have been someone else in the first one, but who else would it have been? It was the back of his gelled hair, and he was in the PE uniform, walking away. The next was a profile of him running a lap, his arms mid-pump. He could see Tina behind him. It was obviously taken from a distance, but only about the distance from the track to the bleachers. They weren't followed by any other pictures, and looked newly taken.

Why did Kurt have pictures of him?

"What are you doing in my room?"

Blaine turned just quick enough to see Kurt's look of mild panic before it shifted into extreme irritation.

"I'm sorry, I -"

"Whatever," Kurt huffed in poorly-executed passivity. Blaine could practically see the steam pouring from his ears as he stalked over and shoved a pile of CDs in Blaine's arms. "Here are the CDs."

Blaine blinked blankly at Kurt's dangerously narrowed eyes.

"Leave, please?" Kurt said when Blaine obviously missed the point.

Blaine stuttered out an apology, still reeling at the images of himself on Kurt's wall, and found his way out of the house and back to his car.

He was halfway back home when he realized how stupid he was being.

The reason Kurt had pictures of Blaine on his was because he was _interested_ in him to some degree.

Suddenly looking back, Kurt's intense indifference seemed extremely put on. After all, if he really did hate Blaine like he seemed to hate everyone else he would have just ignored him instead of going out of his way to make sure Blaine knew he didn't care. Blaine let out a short breath of amazement at the realization - in trying to prove like he didn't care, Kurt had unknowingly revealed just how much he really did.

Why he cared, Blaine had no idea. But he did know that Kurt's legs and neck and hair and eyes weren't going to un-imprint from his brain any time soon.

He made a U-turn at the nearest intersection, heading straight back to Kurt's house.

Five minutes later he was haphazardly parked in Kurt's driveway and slamming the car door shut.

"KURT!" he hollered at the window he knew belonged to his room. There was no answer. "Kurt, take off your Goddamn headphones and come down here!"

Still no answer.

Blaine found a rock in the bushes and hurled it at the window. He could practically hear the exasperated sigh from behind the closed window, and fifteen seconds later Kurt was hauling open the front door."

"What the hell?" he hissed, advancing on Blaine who backed up against his car on instinct. "My dad is home, stop yelling obscenities at my window."

"I wasn't yelling obscenities," Blaine insisted.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" Kurt said, cool façade crossing his face once more.

But Blaine was determined to keep it off.

"Why do you have pictures of me?" he blurted.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Kurt said, beginning to inspect his fingernails. But he wasn't storming off, and Blaine took that as a good sign.

"I would," Blaine pressed.

"It's none of your business," Kurt threw back.

"Well, considering that they're pictures of me, I'd like to think it is."

Blaine fought down a triumphant grin as Kurt chewed the inside of his lip, for one second looking ever so slightly distressed.

Blaine leaned forward off of the car, placing his hands on his hips in victory. "Well?"

He already knew the answer, but the satisfaction of hearing Kurt say it out loud was golden.

"Well, maybe you interest me a bit more than I thought."

Blaine barely caught the mask of indifference slide completely from his face before Kurt was crowding into his space, pressing him into the car, lips barely brushing against his own.

Blaine's breath stuttered harshly before Kurt surged forward, hands squeezing Blaine's hips against the car as his mouth covered Blaine's.

"Interesting?" Blaine pulled away to rasp in disbelief.

"Yeah," Kurt muttered before leaning back in.

He tilted his head to deepen the kiss and Blaine couldn't help but drop his mouth open to let Kurt's tongue swipe at his lips, his teeth, thrusting against his own tongue. Kurt's hands flew up to lean Blaine's head back and press his body closer, and Blaine's fingers dipped into Kurt's back pockets.

Kurt placed three more rolling kisses against Blaine's lips, pulling away with a smack. Blaine's eyes fluttered back open and stared in bewilderment at Kurt's flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.

Kurt smirked - the first actual smile Blaine had ever seen on him - and pulled away, eyes looking Blaine up and down once before turning to walk back to the house. Blaine missed the extra set of body heat immediately.

He spluttered over his words for a minute, trying to gather some semblance of a rational thought to express. "So - so what are we?"

Kurt glanced at him over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow before rolling his eyes, shaking his head and entering the house.

After standing in the cold for a moment, Blaine grinned and chuckled to himself, getting back in the car and driving back onto the main road. He slipped one of Kurt's CDs out of the jewel case and into his stereo, letting the foreign beat of an indie rock love song fill his car. Things were certainly starting to get interesting


End file.
